


The Tale of Huntress

by thunderpiperose



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Disney, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-11-28 04:19:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11410077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderpiperose/pseuds/thunderpiperose
Summary: There was once upon a time a mysterious huntress who stumbled across the town of Villeneuve. Has the famed Gaston finally met his match? (Post-BATB AU in which Gaston survives)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: I wonder what it would be like for Gaston to be with an empowered woman.
> 
> This is post-BATB (1991) in which Gaston survives and got over Belle and the Beast and everything.

There was once upon a time a young woman who stumbled across the small town of Villeneuve, seeking shelter from the thunderstorm. She entered the tavern, soaked from head to boot, as lightning suddenly flashed and a loud crack of thunder put to a still the lively chatter within. When the blinding flash subsided, the townsmen saw the unfamiliar face of the raven-haired girl walking toward the counter. Some of the men and women resumed conversation, but not LeFou, the man reputed to be the village hero's most loyal hanger-on. LeFou held a steel mug to the tap of a barrel of his signature brew, and as he waited for it to fill, he examined the strange woman closely. Her hair was tied with a ribbon, she wore a sanguine tunic, leggings, and boots specked with mud. She also carried a blunderbuss, slung across her back with the use of a leather sling. She walked toward him, seeing that he was the only one at the counter who wasn't busy talking to someone. As she came closer, LeFou noticed a holster strapped on her thigh, and judging from the hilt, it seemed that she was carrying a dagger.

"Excuse me, are you the barkeep?" she asked, looking around, examining the place.

LeFou nodded with a smile, trying to compose himself before a woman who carried both a dagger and a blunderbuss. The boots were peculiar enough but the weapons perturbed him. He knew that even in the village there was only one man who walked around carrying such weaponry.

"Could I get a table near the fireplace? I'm soaking wet, and I'll order Merlot, if you have that." The edge of her lip twitched, almost to a smile, as though she knew that her very appearance made him uneasy.

"Err, yeah. We don't have Merlot in these parts, but I'm sure Alsace wine will do!" LeFou grinned, hiding his curiosity. He wanted so badly to ask her where she came from and why she dressed in such a masculine fashion. "You can push that table and grab a stool near the fireplace, but try not to move that high-backed seat with the fur and horns. It belongs to the most important man in town."

LeFou pointed at the big chair near the fireplace and the woman followed the direction of his finger. Aside from the fur-coated seat, the wall was decorated with many antlers which came in different shapes and sizes. She also saw the head of a ram, a boar, a fox, and a bald eagle, all mounted as if to boast of one's hunting prowess. An enormous bearskin rug decorated the floor before the crackling hearth; however, the most notable decoration was not the many animal trophies, it was the large painting of a man attached above the mantel.

LeFou went down to the wine cellar to grab a bottle. The young woman pushed the table nearest to the fireplace even nearer, grabbed a stool, and laid her gun on the table.

"Here you go!" LeFou served her order shortly, laid the bottle of wine and a small glass on the table, and left as quickly as he came.

She heaved a sigh and leaned on the table, closing her eyes as if to sleep, unaware that some of the men were watching her closely, talking about how unusual it was to see an outsider, and made even more unusual by the fact that she carried weapons and dressed herself in what looked like hunting gear. When it crossed their minds, the thought of a woman who can hunt was ridiculous.

The three men occupying the nearby table were mumbling among themselves. The townsman named Tom leaned in, looking left and right at his companions, Dick and Stanley, and said, "Why'd ya think she wears that? If ye ask me she's dressed a helluva lot like-"

"Gaston?" Dick interjected.

"I wouldn't blame her if she idolized him to a point that made her, you know…" Stanley wiggled his finger near his temple, "A little unwell in the head."

"And with the gun and the knife!" Tom said with a shudder.

"But she isn't from this town." Dick crossed his arms.

"Look at her, she's staring at the painting!" Stanley jerked his head in the direction of the fireplace.

All three of them turned their heads to look at the stranger, now without fear of getting caught staring since they were sure that any woman who looked at that painting would find it hard to turn away.

Whenever the woman examined something closely, her eyebrows scrunched. It was a truly involuntary gesture which made her look unfriendly, but it repelled unwanted attention nonetheless. She looked at the painting of the man dressed in red with a quiver of arrows slung on his back and blunderbuss in hand, chin held high as if he could come alive at any moment and proclaim that he was the one who bagged the animal trophies and put them on a display of glory.

She smiled and helped herself to a shot of wine. It was still raining outside but the warmth from the hearth made her very comfortable. The wine helped keep her temperature a little higher, considering that she was soaked to the bone when she entered.

A loud thud came from the entrance and in came a man of great stature. The townsmen started yelling "Gaston!" which obviously must be his name, and most of the women fluttered their eyelashes at him, revealing their pining and affection for the handsome brute.

"Hey, Gaston! Done for the day's hunt?" LeFou asked as he came running toward the man. Gaston threw his cape for LeFou to carry and proceeded to his seat at the fireplace. Evidently, all eyes were on him. The woman contemplated the sight of the villagers and how they showered him with attention.

"Bad weather for a hunt, but nothing that can't be solved by a drink!" Carrying his blunderbuss on his shoulder, Gaston sauntered toward the fireplace as the townspeople cheered wildly. He stopped walking when everyone had stopped cheering and continued with their conversations. The tavern was once again filled with the ambient sound of people talking and gossiping.

LeFou quickly followed Gaston, holding a stein filled to the brim, and asked, "Drink some beer?"

Gaston kept quiet. LeFou saw that he was eyeing the strange outsider as she poured herself another shot of wine, ignoring the two men standing a short distance from her table. Gaston raised an eyebrow when he saw her whole getup, blinking tightly when he saw the gun on the table, knowing that it wasn't his.  _The whole ensemble eh?,_  he thought. With a smirk plastered on his face, he handed his own gun to LeFou, walked toward her, and grabbed her gun from the table. He had a bad habit of grabbing women's belongings without permission.

"Hm, better keep this away, mademoiselle. Might hurt yourself." Gaston noticed how well-kept the weapon was. The wood was intricately carved with elegant patterns.

She set down the glass and told him, "Monsieur Gaston, pardon me, but that gun is mine."

"An adoring fan like you," Gaston said, and as the words came out of his mouth, the woman's brows lifted in surprise, taken aback at why he would assume that she was his fan simply because they were similarly dressed. "I perfectly understand why you'd want to play with things you see me carry, but guns aren't made for women." He shrugged his shoulders disapprovingly. "You might break a finger pulling the trigger, or worse, the recoil would break your arm."

"Yeah, miss, I was thinking the same thing. Thought I'd do it to protect you, he heh," LeFou said, nodding in complete agreement.

 _Well, this is nothing new_ , she thought. She was used to men belittling her experience with a gun, let alone with any weapon. She dealt with such unwarranted criticism the moment she touched one. But as to why Gaston assumed that she was his adoring fan, grabbed her gun without permission or warning of any sort, and condescendingly warned her about injuries she might incur by using a gun that was hers in the first place, was beyond her. Though she conceded that he looked like a knight straight out of a fantasy, he was full of himself, plain and simple.

"Monsieur, I think I'm competent enough to handle a gun that I own and have actually used for years." She didn't notice the increasing volume of her voice. She simply sat straight and looked Gaston in the eye with a slight smile on her face so as not to appear rude. She didn't want to get on the bad side of this man, because if she did, she knew she'd have the whole town against her.

Gaston shook his head slowly, still smirking, unable to believe that the woman was able to wield the weapon. "You see, miss…" he stopped when he realized that he hadn't even asked for her name yet, "Miss?"

"Huntress, just call me huntress."

"You have a name, right?"

"Huntress will do," she replied.

Gaston's expression contorted into a mixture of disdain and confusion. No young woman was ever unwilling to give him her name, even women in other towns took pleasure in indulging opportunities to talk with him. He was used to having his exceptional good looks make most of the members of the opposite sex fawn over him, like a magic spell was cast on them without him ever exerting any effort.

"You see,  _huntress,_  I've never seen a woman shoot a gun before. If she did, she'd just be a bumbling mess! She'd break her arm, and miss the target, and keel over-"

She grew impatient and said, "Pardon me monsieur, but I beg to differ. I fired that gun many times before and none of that happened."

Gaston was certain that this woman was out of it. She seemed a little too outlandish, but he thought that perhaps a little feat of marksmanship would put her in her place. He chortled.

"Miss, I'll show you how a real hunter shoots! LeFou, move the dart board and clear the range! No one shoots like Gaston!" Gaston raised his arms, eliciting roars from the crowd. The townspeople echoed his last statement and moved their tables to clear a wide space from the dart board, a makeshift shooting target.

Gaston laid her gun on the table and LeFou immediately ran toward him to give him back his own. The huntress stood to get a better look at Gaston, intrigued by his flamboyant display of arrogance. The crowd kept cheering, finally settling down when he stood at a considerable distance from the dart board and took aim, even the huntress found the silence eerie.

Gaston fired a shot. The sound of the bullets hitting wood broke the silence for a brief moment. LeFou scurried toward the dart board to take a look at the bullet holes and give out a score. The hole closest to the center was just a few millimeters off, quite remarkable considering that a blunderbuss was not meant to shoot long range.

"Ten points for Gaston!" LeFou yelled.

The townsmen cheered loudly and some of them went to take a look at the board. Surely enough, their hero did not disappoint. He was a consistent shooter, gifted with an accurate eye, they all thought. Gaston basked in the attention of the roaring crowd, walking toward the huntress with an arrogant gait. Oh, how good it would feel to teach him a lesson, just entertaining the idea made her smile to herself.

"I see you're impressed! I shoot pheasants from much, much farther away. You see, miss, that's why there's no man who shoots better than I do." He laughed. "And surely, no woman!"

"Pardon me again, Monsieur Gaston, but I still beg to differ."

The huntress simply closed her eyes and walked toward the same spot where he fired the shot. Gaston's eyes followed her with an incredulous gaze. He couldn't believe how adamant she was even though she was merely going to make a fool of herself. When the huntress aimed at the dart board, the men stepped aside looking at her with bemused looks, sniggering at the disastrous spectacle they were expecting to see, but also worried that one of them would probably get shot.

The huntress aimed carefully at the center of the board, gently placing her finger on the trigger, and fired a shot. Gaston was agape, and so were the men and women who witnessed the inconceivable feat. LeFou shook his head to regain composure and ran to the board, mouth still wide open as he examined the bullet holes. He couldn't believe what he was seeing but there was a hole at the center. Here was an outsider, a woman, who showed up the town's best shooter.

"Monsieur!" the huntress shouted. Stanley quickly pulled LeFou away from the dart board when he saw the woman grab the hilt from the holster on her thigh. She closed her eye and aimed for a few seconds, then threw the dagger straight at the board. The sharp tip landed on the same spot as the bullet hole at the center. When Stanley pushed LeFou so that he could give her a score, the little man felt like fainting in disbelief. Not only had the woman beaten Gaston at his best, she even proved to them that she was capable of accurately hitting a target with a dagger, from a distance.

"T-ten points for the huntress!"

After an awkward pause, the townspeople gave her a round of applause, knowing when to congratulate a display of skill when they saw it. Gaston strode across the sea of claps as he went to the board, pushing LeFou aside, to look closely at the bullet holes and the dagger. He refused to believe it but the woman indeed managed to hit the center of the dart board. He gritted his teeth as he pulled the dagger and looked at the woman who sipped a meager amount of wine, drinking the liquor for the sole reason that it made her feel warm although the downpour had already stopped. The noise dissipated and some of the villagers, mostly the women, left the tavern to turn in for the night. Some left to save face for Gaston, thinking of pretending to forget that a woman outsider showed him up, making his marksmanship second-best to hers. LeFou started to clean and put the tables back to their proper places while the remaining townsmen went back to drinking, this time mumbling instead of talking loudly.

Gaston tried his best to feign sportsmanship. He brazened himself and strutted toward her, twirling her dagger between his fingers. He dropped it on the table and plopped down on the stool next to the huntress who was now adjusting her boots and wiping mud away, preparing to leave.

"Say, not bad, for a woman," Gaston said with half a smirk on his face.

She knew he was not one to eat his words. "Don't patronize me," she said curtly, pulling the strings of her boot.

This woman was getting on his nerves, but he had to remain calm if he wanted to raise the chances of his challenge being accepted. He ignored the comment and said, "I meant it. I've never met a girl quite like you."  _No girl as odd and much of a show off, that is_.

"Really? Well, next time, when you want to impress a girl, just flash her your best smile," she said dryly.

Gaston couldn't quite understand her. One moment she insulted him, the next, she gave him a compliment. "Heh, the ladies do love that, but you know what I'd really like?" He leaned in with a malevolent grin across his face.

"What?" The huntress bit her lip. The man before her was equal parts devilishly handsome and repulsive, and he made her feel ill at ease. The light from the oil lamp illuminated every chiseled feature of his face, more so when he leaned in. She saw the lamplight reflected in his piercing blue eyes and for a moment, she was mesmerized. It was a shame how this man can be outrageously handsome and intolerably rude at the same time.  _He could have had it all_ , she thought.

Gaston suddenly stood up and announced, "You, me, a hunting contest tomorrow! She may have impressed you folks with a fluke, but tomorrow I'll prove to you that not even this so-called huntress can hunt better than Gaston!"

The townsmen cheered him on, ready to spread news of the challenge. They haven't had this much excitement ever since an infamous incident involving a beast.

"Hey, wait!" she protested.

"It's a challenge!" Gaston placed his hands on his waist, obviously not considering a denial. "Return at noon when the game forage for food. We meet at the meadow on the edge of the village. May the best man, or woman, win!"

LeFou handed him a stein of cold beer which he seized and gulped immediately, banging it on the table.

The huntress felt her temper rising quickly, but thought that a heated argument with him was futile, so she muttered, "Fine, have it your way."

Gaston pointed to the bearskin rug in front of the hearth. "You see that? You don't stand a chance."

"We'll see," she said defiantly.

The young woman returned the dagger to the holster and slung her blunderbuss across her back. She looked at him one last time, her face devoid of emotion. She saw the smug expression on his face as his look followed her every move, she couldn't stand it. She bid him and LeFou, "Good night, messieurs," and exited the tavern. She showed him up once, and she swore to herself that she would do it again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sort of contemplative chapter about the heroine's backstory. My apologies in advance if that isn't your cup of tea...

_At the heart of great beauty lies tragedy._

That particular night was not agreeable to the huntress. She should have been able to anticipate the rain but her senses failed her. She was wandering around the forest in search of shelter from the deluge after an unsuccessful hunt when she came upon a signpost pointing to a town called Villeneuve. She only meant to seek refuge in the nearest inn of the town she first came across, and never did she expect that her stay would end with her causing the town hero a great humiliation. He was an insufferable man, and despite all her musing and observation during their exhibition of skill, she failed to comprehend why men and women, even of simple reason, lavished affection for one so conceited.

The huntress valued beauty because she couldn't find it in herself. Whenever she looked in the mirror, she saw nothing phenomenal, nothing that stood out. She had an appearance which she thought did not meet the era's standard of beauty, let alone her own standard. Sure she made efforts to look her best when she felt like it, but she often wondered what it would feel like to be effortlessly attractive. Why? It is human nature to desire what one does not have. They always said that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but that is a truism that she doubtfully accepted. Beauty is convention. To her, there is a kind of beauty that one beheld in one's own eyes, and there is beauty dictated by convention, the latter is grandiose and for her, it is the kind of beauty that quickly loses its value because of the superficiality and predictability that people associate it with. They even condemn the undeserving who walked alongside it. Conventional beauty was the most objectified of all, and it disappointed her that such works of art were treated as such.

For that reason, Gaston's face was etched into her mind, as if a hot branding iron was pressed against her memory. She will never forget the way the lamplight danced on his face, caressing every sharp feature. It was both blessing and curse to be captivated by first impressions. His very presence was intoxicating, she wanted her eyes to be graced by his image but she did not want her soul to suffer his derision. She loathed herself for placing more emphasis on his outward appearance than his obnoxious attitude, but could she fault herself? Never before had she seen a man more handsome, even in all her travels to different towns and faraway cities, being the outcast daughter of a wealthy man who boarded vessels to and from foreign lands.

Ah, her father, a financier merchant who taught his one and only child the ways of aristocrats. He passed away too soon, leaving her a considerable inheritance which she had no desire to spend extravagantly. It was difficult to continue his legacy, not because she was incompetent at commerce, but because it was difficult for a young woman to push through with equitable bargains on the negotiating table, with men forcing down their opportunistic contracts down her throat. No man would consider trading with a woman fruitful, for they always expected the investment to plummet once she got married, settled down, and devoted all of her time to her husband; however, no man can downplay a demonstration of exceptional hunting skill. Hunting was a pastime of the nobility and her father spent his time with many of their kind. He taught her how to shoot a musket and a blunderbuss and to weave a story with a dagger. Handling weapons was an art form. It wasn't merely a means to a violent end, it was an end in itself.

Alas, the circumstances and prejudices of her time dictated that if she were to enjoy her favorite pastime and chosen profession, she would be labeled an outcast, looked down on by both men and women the same way the townspeople in the tavern underestimated her. She resolved to stay in an isolated lodge in the forest incidentally a few miles away from Villeneuve, far from the city where she grew up, not wanting to be reminded of the mockery she endured from the merchants and their noble wives. She took all of her father's fortune with her and decided that she would bide her time, sharpening her hunting skills, until the day she gathered enough determination to do business again. The occupation required much capital and she needed to conserve every gold piece if she ever hoped to make that dream a reality.


	3. Chapter 3

It was the huntress' habit of bathing in the secluded waterfall when the sun was already high up in the sky. She rarely woke up at dawn for she found it difficult to sleep before midnight, with her nose stuck in a book through the evening. Though she found fantasy and romance fascinating, she still had a preference for philosophical fiction and realism, such as stories of social mobility, of poor families clawing their way to escape the grasp of poverty. She read works about mercantilism and engrossed herself in  _The Wealth of Nations_. Her practical upbringing taught her much in the ways of the world, and she was no less savvy than a deer that caught a whiff of a hunter's scent.

Back in the lodge, she brushed her hair in front of the mirror on the dressing table and swiped a bit of red pomade on her lips. The hint of color added vigor to her face and it made her feel a quiet confidence when she started the day. After tying her hair with a ribbon, she took one last look at the mirror, smiled, and thanked the Lord that at least she had enough self-esteem to consider herself cute; but still, she wouldn't go so far as think that she was beautiful. She reminded herself of the usual compliment she received from her friends and a few acquaintances, which was that she looked younger than her age, and recalling those memories gave her a bit of a confidence boost. She needed all the confidence she could get, especially when she had an unexpected hunting contest to win.

She loaded the blunderbuss with powder and shot and swung it across her back on its leather sling, as she always did. She would not have a hearty meal until the close of the contest so she decided that she would just buy a roll of bread from the village baker. After grabbing a few gold coins from the precious chest, a length of rope, and a leather pouch, she then set out for the trip to Villeneuve. What a burden it was for her to participate in a trifling contest just to indulge a man's wounded pride. She scheduled a visit to a faraway port town to gather information about maritime insurance and how it benefited merchant vessels but instead, she had to go to a provincial town with no sign of progress in sight. Unfortunately, it seems that the stagnant economy has fostered stagnation in the minds of its inhabitants.

ooo

When noon came, Gaston rode his black steed to the meadow where he expected his opponent to arrive. That morning, he told LeFou not to come and instead, go around town announcing that the local hero has been issued a challenge by the huntress who allegedly intended to visit Villeneuve precisely to engage him in contest. Gaston had a talent for twisting the truth and making his lies believable, the villagers listened to him without question. He made banter so easily with people and engaged even the most introverted person in conversation. The women went out of their way to talk to him, and he enjoyed their company especially when they gave him compliments, one after the other. Sometimes he received invitations from nearby towns for him to attend their dances and when he did, he would walk to the town square dressed regally in bold colors such as red and gold. The men identified good taste and the women found it difficult to turn away. He had an abundance of charisma which he exploited to his every advantage. He knew it and he did not hesitate to use it.

His thoughts trailed to the woman who caused him much humiliation on the previous evening. Where did she come from? Why was she here? He did not expect her to be that capable with a gun and a knife. She was an unwelcome aberration. The thought of her disgusted him so, and yet intrigued him at the same time. He wasn't simply going to let her go without getting a chance to rectify his reputation. Judging by her appearance, she didn't weigh or lift much, but there she was, she accepted his challenge with a venomous confidence despite knowing that the bearskin rug and the animal trophies were all his.

He dismounted when he saw the huntress approach, hair in a ponytail, swaying with the wind. She stared at him silently as he walked toward her and circled her like a predator eyeing his prey.

"Ready to make a fool of yourself?" Gaston taunted, as pompous as ever despite last night's misfortune. "I almost thought you stood me up. Don't you know you're being a little too reckless?"

"Last I remember I wasn't the one who made a fool of himself."

"I'm giving you one last chance to give up."

"Never. Have your gun at the ready."

The huntress was not one to quickly lose her temper but this man was quickly getting on her nerves. Gaston exemplified egotism, from the tone of his voice to the swagger in his stride. She wanted to teach him humility and this presented her an opportunity to do so. If only she could come across a buck large enough to ensure her win, then she could at least make him realize that he wasn't the greatest hunter in the whole world, no matter how improbable that realization would be.

"I had LeFou tell the whole town to gather here before twilight to celebrate my victory. Make sure you stay alive until then."

Without saying anything more, Gaston disappeared into the woods. The huntress followed suit.

ooo

If she could just chance upon a mature male elk, her prospects of winning will surely increase. She trod lightly along the trees, carefully examining every bark and shrub for signs of a quadruped. She crouched down low and observed the animal trail but there were nothing but fresh paw prints of a small canine, probably a fox. She walked a long way to the area of the waterhole where deer usually stop over for a drink, careful not to stand on a direction where the wind will carry her scent down to the small valley or else game would not go there at all. A hunter needed to be patient and silent. Hunting was an exercise in stealth. It required movement with the least sound, slight steps with the least weight to minimize vibrations that would send the wrong signals to the quarry, and a keen observation of wind and direction. To successfully trail an animal with heightened senses, one must emulate the instincts of its predator.

Prowling along the bushes, she noticed that some animal had bitten off the leaves of a nearby shrub. She looked down and saw deer tracks, two, in fact. She carefully followed them and saw that they separated, one going deeper into the forest, and the other toward the sunlit glade to the waterhole. The tracks going westward to the forest had a narrow convex center, while the ones that went northward to the waterhole had a blunter point but a slightly wider convex. The difference in width and shape of the hoof marks was almost negligible, but not to the trained eye of one who grew up beside a father who hunted through the forests of France with and without the company of noblemen.

The marks that led to the waterhole were definitely an elk's. The huntress grabbed a generous amount of dirt beneath the spot which the animal stepped on and sprinkled it all over her, making sure it stuck to her sweat. She followed the fresh marks leading north and there she saw it, a magnificent elk drinking at the waterhole, quenching its thirst. Its long, protruding antlers signified that it was in its prime, a perfect specimen to present to the proud hunter. She felt the wind against her and cautiously aimed her blunderbuss straight at the high shoulder, unobstructed by shrubbery and branches. A direct hit will snap the spine, break the ribs, and render the elk defenseless; however, it took great precision to shoot the critical area. The huntress had shot many a deer through the high shoulder, and she assured herself that this was not going to be different.  _Artemis, please, guide my hand._

ooo

Twilight would soon come. Some of the villagers were already gathered at the meadow, and Gaston was at the center of their attention. He bagged an adult stag, the marks of a brain shot evident on its head. He told them the story of how he hunted a stag much greater in size, much more majestic, and that unfortunately, there was no better game today than the one that he had taken.

From the edge of the forest where the meadow met the woods, they could see a figure toiling up the slope. The huntress hauled her hefty prey with a rope tied to its limbs. Gaston beckoned the villagers to follow him toward her and when they had closed the distance, she let go of the rope and took deep breaths, tired from lugging the carcass. She was drenched in sweat and too tired to speak, so she waited for them to compare the respective kills and announce the victor. The villagers remained silent and motionless, as though she had done something so unacceptable that none of them dared to speak. Gaston looked at the huntress' kill with disdain and forcefully prodded LeFou in the shoulder. After seeing the contemptuous look on the hunter's face, LeFou knew what to do even though it required him to act against his conscience.

"Alright everyone, it's a draw! Let's go back to the tavern and have a jolly good time, it's getting dark already!" LeFou ushered the townspeople back to the village and before long, only the murmur of their voices could be heard from the meadow.

The huntress stood in disbelief. Her hard work amounted to little more than mere self-glorification if there was no acknowledgement, for without acknowledgement, she had no chance of making her adversary realize the error of his ways.

"Gaston! An elk to a mere stag, the difference can be seen by the antlers alone!"

She glared at him, disappointment and anger rising as she realized what had happened. She turned to look at the crowd and saw that none of the villagers even glanced back at them. Gaston grabbed her shoulders and turned her to him to gain her undivided attention. He couldn't stand her showing him up at every match, but he had to do this to get a chance to offer her another challenge. The dreadful feeling of losing at hunting, his most prized activity, gnawed at his ego.

"Who are you?" he asked, stressing each word. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you're a wicked witch!"

The huntress tried to push his arm off her shoulder but found his grip too tight for her to shake off. She placed her hand at the hilt of her dagger, ready to strike if he did anything violent.

"I'm a woman living alone in a forest, hunting is a necessity for me!"

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes in an attempt to calm down. She gently placed her hands on his, feeling the tension of his muscles by the grip on her shoulders. Here was a man, self-centered yet adored by his fellow townsmen, practically begging for a chance to show that he was better than her.

"You're no sportsman, Gaston. How could you call yourself a hunter?" She turned her eyes away from him, looking at the sunset. The sun was quickly disappearing into the horizon. Dusk had come.

Gaston expected her to put up more of a fight, in fact, the gesture was intended to provoke her; however, the look on her face evinced a sincere expression of disappointment. He couldn't understand why she wasn't enraged, after all, she was deprived of the chance to gloat and savor her victory. She simply stood still, disappointed, as if he were a little boy who had done something to shame his mother. Feeling his own anger dissipate, he released his hold on her and shook his head.

"You win this time," he said, quickly thinking of another challenge. "But you can't beat me at archery."

"I don't wield a bow," she said tersely. She was too tired and hungry to argue with him.

Gaston was surprised, this woman who had bested him at shooting and hunting didn't know how to use a bow and arrow. The thought made him grin, and shortly after, his usual pompous attitude returned.

"And here I thought there isn't anything you can't do!" He gleefully delighted in the fact that he was far better than her at archery, considering that she didn't even know how to handle a bow.

"I'm very flattered," she said wryly. Apparently, the man couldn't hear her stomach rumble over the sound of his own arrogance.

"Fine then, another hunting challenge! And don't think that I'll stop, it'll end only if I win!"

In the midst of his seeming monologue, Gaston failed to notice that the huntress had already stopped listening to him and preoccupied herself with getting meat for dinner. When he turned to look at her, he saw that she was chopping off slabs of elk meat. She packed enough to fill her pouch and the only thing left to do was return to the lodge, so she walked toward the woods until Gaston suddenly blocked her way.

"It'd be a waste not to take home the prize," he said, gesturing at the remains of the elk.

"Monsieur Gaston, I can't carry that home."

"I can," he said nonchalantly.

"Why would you?"

"Look, girl, meat like that doesn't come often, it shouldn't be wasted."

"Then you can have it," she insisted.

"I'm not the one who killed it. I have no use for it," Gaston snarled. He was slightly offended by how she even considered that he'd eat another hunter's kill, especially one that was presented for a contest.

The huntress realized that he was a man who wouldn't take no for an answer, not in any matter, but she didn't want to let a good deed go unrewarded, regardless of his motive. She quickly thought of a way to repay him, and reluctant as she was, she just had to do it.

"Please…" she stopped mid-sentence, struggling against her hesitation. Finally, she asked him, "Would you stay for dinner?"

Gaston raised an eyebrow, not because he wasn't used to women asking him over for dinner, but because the offer came from the huntress who had expressed nothing but disrespect and contempt for him.

"I see no woman is different." He smirked as he strutted toward the carcass, thinking that the woman had to give in. He was Gaston, after all, a man among men.

"What do you mean?" She stared at him, annoyed by that now familiar swagger.

"You just invited me to dinner." He lifted the elk over his shoulder and proceeded in the direction of the woods.

"So?"

"You're playing hard to get," he stated as if it were obvious.

The huntress found his statement utterly unacceptable. "I am not!" she snapped back at him. The man constantly ridiculed her, but to presume that she was interested in him was far too much.

"Say whatever you want, girl. You can't deny it," he teased her, or at least he thought he did. She did invite him for dinner, at her own home, no less.

"How dare you!" she shouted, unable to accept the fact that he thought she had designs on him.

Gaston relished in making a mockery of her. The woman was defiant until the end, and there was none more satisfying than shooting down the most defiant of prey. If she wounded his pride, then at least he could wound her dignity.


	4. Chapter 4

 

The huntress lived in a humble wooden lodge in a wide clearing inside the forest. She bought it from an old man in exchange for a paltry amount of gold coins. He was eccentric yet learned, and she was right in surmising that he came from the city. He lived as a hermit to get in touch with his inner self, do some soul searching, but when he told her that he did not find the answer during his life in isolation, he eagerly sold her the lodge and everything in it and returned to Paris where his family resided.  _Paris_ , she mused. She missed the hustle and bustle of life in the city, with city folk lingering in cafes discussing politics, art, literature, music, and many of the finer things in life; however, she disliked the superior air in which Parisians carried themselves, some of them with jewelry dangling ostentatiously, brown-nosing magistrates whom they chanced upon taking a stroll in the streets.

At first, life in the forest came as a shock to her, but at least she brought with her precious books from her father's library. They provided her with a steady stream of knowledge aside from her observations and the information she gathered from other towns. Port towns in particular were a source of valuable information. She made it a point to keep herself up to date with trends in political thought. A nation's social landscape seemed to change with political breakthroughs. Although back in the city she was indifferent to such concerns, the monotony of living in seclusion preoccupied her with little and she quickly lost interest in simple day-to-day activities, hence, information gathering provided her an avenue by which she could keep in touch with the progression of the world, a task she found worthwhile.

She wallowed in her reveries for Gaston had not spoken a word since they entered the woods. He was stubborn enough to carry the elk and accompany her through the dark forest. She found the comfortable silence a refreshing change of pace from their vitriolic exchanges. Soon, they arrived at her cabin.

"Drop it there," she told her companion. "There's water at the back, you can wash yourself."

"Why thank you, but no looking."

She ignored the mocking remark, either she was getting used to Gaston's vanity or too weary and famished to come up with a sardonic reply, it didn't matter. She preoccupied herself with preparing dinner and washing off the sweat and dirt from her skin. She took extra care when she washed her face and brushed her hair, making sure that it looked straighter than usual. The last thing she wanted when she sat on a table across a disarmingly attractive man was to look anything less than decent.

ooo

For a while, Gaston behaved like a gracious guest at her dinner table, staring at the fireplace and looking around, examining the place. He noticed a pile of newspapers in a basket near the hearth and leatherbound books neatly arranged in rows on the bookshelf. He stared at the huntress across the table, quietly chewing her food. She was a solitary woman who seemed not to understand how inappropriate her actions were. A woman who persisted in hunting and reading was doomed to be a spinster for life. Despite her resolute attitude, the realities of society would soon beat her into submission.

"No wonder you're so odd, you read." His decorum ceased the moment he opened his mouth.

"Gaston, just because someone's well-informed doesn't mean they're odd." The huntress had become too comfortable to lose her temper despite the uncouth behavior of her guest.

"What do you get from reading? It's a pointless waste of time!"

"The best way to get rich at this day and age is to be a merchant, and I can only learn about mercantilism from books. Since I know of no man willing to teach me that, I have no choice but to read about it," she explained.

"You're reading to know how to get rich?"

"Yes!" She beamed, surprised to see that Gaston was trying to hold a conversation with her. "If you've ever been to a port like Marseille, you'd know what I'm talking about. The people of Paris may dress themselves like monarchs, but the people of Marseille are a great deal more pragmatic."

"You've been there?" he asked, although he barely understood what she was talking about.

"Gaston, I've been to many cities, danced with nobles, attended hunting competitions held by aristocrats. You know, the wealthy love to hunt. They hold competitions from time to time, spending money on celebrations and ceremonies."

"I don't get it, if you're so rich, why are you living here? Don't you live in the city?"

The more she gave him answers, the more questions he wanted to ask. City folk, he always found them difficult to understand. They talked differently, spouting words the definitions of which he did not know, or cared to know. The huntress spoke of something called  _mercantilism_  and  _pragmatic_ , and he had no clue what either word meant, but the mention of aristocrats and their hunting competitions piqued his interest.

"Money doesn't grow on trees. If I spent my inheritance without earning income, it'll all go to waste. No one takes me seriously, even if I am a successful merchant's daughter. Back then, I hunted for pleasure, but now, I hunt to stay alive," she answered.

They had long finished eating before Gaston remembered the reason why he offered to carry the elk to her lodge in the first place. He wanted her to participate in another hunting match.

"Well then, if you're so good at hunting, why don't we have another round?"

"What?" the huntress asked, oblivious to the suggestion.

" _Another match_ , huntress, and I won't stop until I win," Gaston demanded.

The huntress pondered. If she merely accepted the challenge, then she would just repeat her mistake, that is, even if she won, Gaston would have it dismissed as a draw. Neither of them would benefit and it will all just be a waste of time and energy. She thought of something that will benefit her regardless of who won. He gave her the idea anyway, and he had no one to blame but himself.

"On one condition," she said. "You teach me archery."

"What?" he bellowed. The fact that she had the nerve to make a demand irked him. He was the great Gaston and no one, let alone a stranger, dared demand anything from him. He was the one who imposed demands on others, not the other way around.

"If you refuse, well, good luck convincing the villagers that you're a better shooter and hunter than I am." The huntress stood to pick up the plates. It was getting late and once again, she felt her weariness sink in.

"No!" Gaston abruptly stood up, grabbed her forearm, and growled, "I will teach you archery and you will be my opponent in our second match!"

The huntress shot him an equally hostile glare.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I was listening to The Green Leaves of Summer in the Inglourious Basterds OST and I think that piece fits this chapter's mood. It'd make a good theme for Gaston, in my opinion. It's just sad and grand at the same time. Check out the same song by the Brothers Four, too, if you want.
> 
> Here's the youtube link for the Inglourious Basterds instrumental version: watch?v=NslWB3glglU. I encourage you to listen to it before/while reading this :)
> 
> For the Brothers Four song: watch?v=1BRqA3DSmpc
> 
> I was reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being while writing this so I think it has some influence here.

 

Gaston couldn't believe himself. He was going to teach archery to a woman, a woman! Women were not meant to learn anything but household chores. They were supposed to be appealing and subservient to men, to the end that they would all become good little wives who offered themselves completely to their husbands. That was the truth that was engraved in his mind ever since he was a young boy, and that was a truth he learned the hard way.

His mother was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. He had her soft, raven hair that shone midnight blue when the light touched it, the crowning glory of her beauty. She was a spirited woman who encouraged him to see more of the world. She told him that if he became old enough, he should ride his steed, travel to faraway towns, and experience places such as cities, reminding him not to limit himself to the small town of Villeneuve because he was Gaston, her son, and he was destined for greatness. His father agreed wholeheartedly, going on and on about how Villeneuve won't be able to contain the greatness that he'll become. His parents put him on a pedestal, his father adored him and his mother treated him like a prince, and thus, Gaston put himself on a pedestal far above every man. There was no man or woman who had the right to deny him his demands, for that privilege belonged to his parents alone.

When Gaston was too young to accompany his father to hunt, he always thought that the man spent all day sharpening his hunting skills, even when he came home past dinner. His mother made attempts to draw out the truth of his whereabouts and scolded him if he wasn't being truthful to her. He met her indignation with menacing shouts of his own, threatening to kick her out if she failed to stamp out her misguided self-righteousness. On those nights, she gave him the cold shoulder and slept on the living room floor instead. Whenever he saw little Gaston witness such incidents, he always told him, "That's what you do to women, Gaston! You put them in their place!" He heeded the man but he always slept beside his mother on the floor, feeling the warmth of her body and the fire from the hearth.

ooo

The huntress insisted that she accompany him to a nearby village where he was going to buy her a bow and some arrows. She didn't want him handling her money. As a matter of fact, she didn't want anyone but herself to have custody of her funds, regardless of the amount.

Gaston haggled tirelessly with the store owner, telling the latter that he could find better bargains in other towns and that the only reason he was buying at that particular store was because it was nearest to Villeneuve. He said so with unwavering confidence even though this store was the first and only one they planned to visit. The huntress observed the lengthy exchange between buyer and seller. The store owner finally acceded and sold the bow and arrows at a considerable markdown. Gaston seemed pleased with himself when he handed her the weapon. She thought that despite his insufferable narcissism, Gaston had a talent for getting people to loosen up, do what he wants them to do, and believe what he wants them to believe. Such flair for manipulation would be dangerous in the wrong hands, but if used within the bounds of ethics, it was a useful tool to gain influence, and with influence came opportunity.

ooo

Gaston shot his first deer at the age of seven. His father took him hunting and he shot only pheasants, foxes, and rabbits, until they came upon a deer ambling through the woods. His father told him to aim at the head. An accurate shot would halt the functions of its nervous system and kill it instantly. Gaston did as he was told and shot the animal in the head, the bullet penetrated its skull and it fell, motionless. Gaston never questioned his father, he was the best hunter in the village and the most handsome man too, a masculine beauty who was a rightful match for his mother.

At the age of twelve, Gaston was quickly becoming adept at hunting and archery. He had an affinity for such activities. When his father asked for his company at the tavern, the former boasted about young Gaston's achievements and evoked envy in the eyes of townsmen who fathered less remarkable sons. In a few years, he will be the one to take up his father's mantle, and thinking about it roused his excitement. The villagers will hail him not merely as the greatest hunter in the village, but as the esteemed hero of Villeneuve. The young men at his age already revered him and the girls threw themselves shamelessly at him, grabbing his elbows as if to escort him, making more contact than necessary. He was the object of envy and admiration, and he was more than willing to take advantage of such status.

Despite the passage of years, his father's habit had not changed. He kept coming home late, casually giving his wife a kiss, done more out of routine than affection, before he went to the bedroom, swaying slightly on his feet. Gaston knew his father loved his mother, but he knew it was love for her beauty and obedience, not for her soul. His father kept drilling into his mind that the only purpose of a woman was to be beautiful and obedient, otherwise, she was worthless; however, Gaston refused to believe that such a principle applied to his mother. When he was young, he would sleep beside her on the living room floor, but now, she let her husband kiss her without so much as a whimper.

One rainy evening when his father again came home late, Gaston was busying himself with crafting arrows using twine and twigs he picked up from the forest. Later that midnight, his mother came out of the bedroom and sat on the window sill, weeping quietly. He stared at her pathetic form and grimaced at how pitiful she had become. She was beaten into submission, the burning passion in her heart doused by her husband's indifference. Whenever he saw his mother sobbing on the window sill, each night felt like it was the first time he saw her in such a state. It was a disappointing sight which Gaston repeatedly saw through the years, but he never got used to it.

He was born of a father and a mother, it took both of them to conceive him, and it made no sense to him why he should treat his mother any less than he did his father. Gaston knew he would not have been born without her and when he saw her, he couldn't believe that she was the one who gave birth to him. Her enthusiasm withered away into despondency. The sight sickened him. This broken woman was not his mother, his mother was radiant and dignified, a defiant beauty who was a rightful match for his father.

ooo

Every afternoon, the huntress went to Villeneuve to practice archery under Gaston's tutelage. On the first few days of training, she found it difficult to steady her bow arm and aim at the right angle. Gaston had to adjust her arms frequently, and she barely hit the target. He chided her every time her stance faltered when she released the arrow. He felt equal amounts of pleasure and frustration, pleasure when he saw her fumble with the bow and arrow like a buffoon and frustration when it seemed like she would never learn.

"No! Not like that," Gaston commented upon noticing that the huntress' left arm held the bow too high and her right arm was bent at too low an angle. He walked and stood behind her, lowering her bow arm and raising her right elbow. "That's more like it."

He held onto her elbows for a while so that she could remember the proper position. She glanced at him, seeing that he was staring straight at the target, and noticed that he stood a whole foot taller than her. She swore that she could feel his chest brush against her shoulders when he breathed. The slight contact and the disconcerting lack of space between them made her arms stiffer than usual and her heart beat rapidly, and she only hoped that he hadn't noticed.

The next week, she landed arrows a few centimeters from the center of the target. Gaston conceded that she was a diligent student, and it did not take long for her to hit at decent distances, considering that she had mastered the art of shooting and knife throwing. She often caught him snickering at her when she occasionally took pride in her small accomplishments, signs that she was gradually learning, and usually let him be, but when he didn't stop, she pretended to aim at him. He knew she was not really going to shoot him but he erred on the side of caution and simply sneered at her.

One late afternoon, the rainstorm left the huntress no choice but to postpone her return home. Gaston suggested she stay at the tavern while waiting for the rain to stop. She saw some of the same old faces from the time she first entered and now that she was not an uncommon sight, the townsmen did not glance at her as frequently as they did before. Though they still deemed her odd, they seemed to have accorded her some respect. They noticed that Gaston spent quite some time with her, and curiously, more time than he even allotted to the young women in town.

"No one's managing the bar," she said. In other towns, there would be at least one person behind the counter who handled orders. "Who owns the place?"

"I do," Gaston replied.

"The bar's empty, aren't you going to manage it?"

"That's the bartender's job, not mine."

The thought of Gaston, familiar with the conduct of inventory and bookkeeping, made her want to inquire further but the tired look on his face implied that he was not in the mood for conversation, so she merely said, "You never told me you ran a business."

"You never asked."

The rain was still pouring. Gaston sat at his usual chair in front of the hearth. The huntress settled on a table near the fireplace and eventually, she fell asleep. Later on, she was roused by the faint sound of a man singing. It was a soothing, operatic baritone that sounded familiar, but where could she have heard such a voice? It came from somewhere outside but near enough for her to hear. She followed the sound which led her to the back door of the tavern. She pushed the door slightly ajar and peeked through the gap. Her eyes widened in surprise when she saw Gaston, leaning on a wooden post, singing a melancholic folk song about life in the province. He looked so handsome in the moonlight, and she noticed that his hair shone blue when it reflected the light. She wished that his singing would never stop, it made her feel calm and yet distant. He had such a beautiful voice, and if he weren't so vainglorious and inconsiderate, she swore that she would have fallen in love with him at that moment.

ooo

As his mother lay solemnly on her deathbed, Gaston clasped her frail hand in his, hoping to soothe away her sorrows. Her vitality slowly diminished due to his father's insouciance, yet she only grew worse every day since he passed away. Gaston finally figured out what his father's vice was, it was infidelity. He realized that his father must have flirted with the women whenever they beckoned him to spend time with them at the tavern. Soon after his father winked at them or sent them some signal that he was to entertain them, he would tell his son to go home and have dinner with his mother for he had more important matters to attend to.

That was what Gaston never understood about his father. He was married to the most beautiful woman in town and he had her living under his roof, fulfilling whatever he asked of her. He found the special woman who was deserving of his love, and yet he mingled with less beautiful women who dropped at his feet, begging for attention without any care for their dignity. Surely his father knew that his mother was the best and that she was the only one who deserved him, for he too was the best. He found his father's illicit affairs with lesser women unnecessary, if not somewhat degrading. Why he would freely offer himself to such wenches when he had the most beautiful woman wrapped around his finger, Gaston could never tell.

"You grew up to be such a fine and handsome man, just like your father," said his mother, smiling at him. Oh, how Gaston loved her, and he would do anything just to make her smile; however, her eyes showed an exhaustion that could not be cured by either sleep or leisure. The pleasure of seeing her son everyday was the only thing that gave her happiness ever since her husband passed away. "I'll be watching over you," she said as she closed her eyes, never to open them again.

The image of his mother's jealous eyes, keeping a close watch on him, was burned into the back of his mind. Jealousy was the disease that his father never cured her of, and it consumed her. Since the day his mother passed away, Gaston kept telling himself that no one deserved him. When he was young, he often flirted with the pretty girls in town, but after his mother's death, he resisted their advances, a look of haughty disdain on his face when he saw them swoon at him. He rarely indulged them, even though he knew he was still a bachelor, but when he did, he treated them with apathy, making it clear that he would never allow them to fully satisfy him and that he would not exert any effort to give them the satisfaction they craved. Whether such attitude was a result of the thought that not one of them deserved him or the profound image of his mother's eye behind him, mindful of his sexual behavior, he did not know.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Another contemplative chapter (this one's for Gaston). Next chapter will be the second round.  
> Oh my, my first kudos! Thank you! :) It means a lot to me to know that you like my story.

_It is the reddest rose that hides the sharpest thorns._

When Gaston needed to immerse himself in his idea of beauty, he need only look into a mirror. He was the son of the most beautiful woman and the most handsome man, a perfect combination. He beheld his reflection and accorded it full admiration. He is one of a kind, in a class of his own, and no man could ever hope to be like him, let alone half the man he is.

If he loved himself to such extremes simply because his parents treated him as if he were the only child in the world that mattered, then most children would have become narcissists, for a parent's love for their child knows no limits. Gaston grew up in different circumstances. He was beside his father all day, hunting in the forest and bragging at the tavern. His father's stories engrossed the townsmen and some of them even worshiped the ground he walked on. His father became somewhat of a local legend, and the whole town mourned his passing. Gaston brought it upon himself to be great enough for both of them, and he refused to be known merely as a continuation of his father's personality. He had to be greater, establish a reputation of his own, and prove to everyone that there was no one better than him, no one who deserved him.

Gaston sought detachment from others whom he considered inferior. The more the townsmen sang praises in his name, the higher they unknowingly raised his pedestal, aggravating his egocentric superiority. But why would the town's most favored man distance himself from his admirers? He remembered his mother's last words. Gaston would never want to shame her, especially after her death, and he thought that by being an ideal, he would lose the ability to bring her shame or exacerbate her jealousy. The more he became detached, the more his empathy dwindled, and the less it became possible for him to disrespect her memory.

Gaston wanted to honor his mother's memory in a way that didn't compromise his masculinity, and yet the very fact that he always had to avoid compromise meant that the risk was ever-present, no matter how faint, and the slightest deviation from masculinity meant that he wasn't living up to his father's expectations. His self-imposed duty to respect his mother's memory, on one hand, and his father's, on the other, tore him apart. It was like maintaining a burdensome desire to be virginal and promiscuous at the same time, like seeking pleasure in abstinence, a vicious cycle that permeated his being. He was reminded of the dilemma whenever he saw his reflection, and it did not help that he had his mother's lustrous black hair and his father's piercing blue eyes. He was born of a seemingly perfect unity of physical beauty and opposing personalities, yet the conflict took away from him the ease of realizing his own identity. If his love for his parents caused him inner turmoil, then at least his love for himself was certain. It can never hurt him and it freed him of such worries. He let his narcissism define him because it was the only certainty in a sea of ambivalence.

When he preened in front of mirrors, Gaston would think to himself that there will only be one woman who was as beautiful as him, and he will have her, and only her, as his wife. The less he let other women take pleasure from him, the more valuable he became, and if he forbade them of his affection entirely, his value would be infinite. He will allow his love and attention to the only woman deserving of him, since it is she who was the only one worthy of such. He would spurn the others who begged for his attention, for all they were ever good at was momentary satisfaction, not even worth the least bit of affection from the great hunter.


End file.
